


Race You To The Bottom

by Anonymous



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Netflix, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Crossover, F/F, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rare Pair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-04-06 03:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19054240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Dinah's always been a sucker for a pretty face.





	Race You To The Bottom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kameiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kameiko/gifts).



> This exists in a nebulous timeline somewhere at the end of _The Punisher_ season 1 and _Daredevil_ season 3 episode 9. Thanks so much for requesting this pairing and I hope you enjoy the fic.

 

More often than not, Dinah wakes up in a cold sweat to the sound of a single gunshot.

She clenches the sheets beneath her chin until she catches her breath. Until her heart stops racing in her chest. When it doesn’t, she climbs from her bed anyway, ignoring the panic crawling through her veins.

She takes long hot showers, she tries to go for runs or make herself breakfast. Anything other than climb the walls with fear. They told her meditation would help—with the anxiety, with the moodswings—but she’s never gotten the hang of it. Dinah hadn’t ever managed to float off into that timeless, neutral void they’d promised she’d be able to reach with enough practice.

Instead, she makes her way back to her bedroom. She takes one of the pain pills they gave her and washes it down with a swig of bourbon. Then she leans over to grab the gun she keeps in the bottom drawer of her nightstand. The gun she bought off the street not long after she’d woken from her coma and realized Homeland Security wouldn’t be giving her own back to her any time soon. She lies back then, the weapon a comfortable weight on her chest. The only thing able to slow down her racing mind.

It’s the same every morning until her alarm clock goes off at 7 am. Has been since she woke up in the hospital with a throbbing headache and a guard outside of her door. To keep _them_ out or to keep _her_ in… She’s never gotten a straight answer on that one.

She dresses quickly, catches the subway into work now that she can’t drive, and unlocks the door to her office with a heavy sigh. The halcyon days of having the director’s chair are long gone. She’s been relegated to a square grey room with a wide cherry wood desk—inherited after one of her superiors upgraded—a bookshelf and a file cabinet. She doesn't have a bathroom, a view or even a window to speak of anymore.

Dinah spends most of her day here now, since she still hasn’t been cleared to take on cases of her own. They described her temporary position as the brainstem of the office, but she knows she’s acting as more of a file clerk with a security clearance. She reads, mostly. She goes over witness statements looking for inconsistencies, for clues they didn't realize they were giving. Less often, she’ll consult her fellow agents on their own cases. She attends mandated therapy sessions twice a week. She visits Russo's prone and comatose body on her lunch breaks. She obsessively checks her office for listening devices.

Dinah locks her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk and is preparing to get on with it when a sharp knock on the door stops her.

She raises her head and looks at the door dumbly for a moment. No one visits her end of the hall. She stops by the file room on her way in and grabs a stack. If she comes across something, she visits the agent in charge of the case, but no one stops by for a chat. _Not ever_. She actually feels a moment of wild panic before she swallows it down, straightens her suit jacket and goes to greet her guest.

“Agent Madani.”

“Ms. Page.”

Dinah would have been shocked to see any civilian at her door; the fact that it’s a reporter, and someone she’s been keeping tabs on, puts her even more on edge. She looks out into the empty hall behind Karen, before waving the woman in and closing the door. Karen looks out of sorts and distracted as she sits, literally, on the edge of her seat. Instead of taking her own seat across from her, Dinah leans against the desk at her side, arms crossed over her chest, and watches her quietly, just long enough for Karen to begin to twitch.

“How did you get back here?” Dinah finally asks. She doesn’t like to start these types of discussions—interrogations—with a question, but Karen’s sudden appearance bugs her.  “Homeland Security generally isn’t in the habit of letting civilians walk its floors unaccompanied.”

“When I said I was looking for you, the girl out front just waved me through.”

Dinah smiles through clenched teeth. “Right. What can I do for you?”

“I don't know if you—” Karen's eyes slide to Dinah's hairline, then away, with more finesse than most. The dark splotch there isn't much of a war wound from the outside, just a dark crescent shape many won't recognize as a gunshot at all, unless they know who she is. Most of the damage lies further back. The curly, dark mop of hair on her head conceals a multitude of sins.

“You interviewed me last year.”

“About your associate, The Punisher. I remember.”

Karen shakes her head and laughs. “Speaking of _my associate_. I, um… I don’t really know how to segue into this. I guess I just have to say it.”

Dinah raises her brows and waits.

“I need to speak with him,” she says flatly, looking Dinah in the eye and obviously wanting to see how she reacts. 

“Then try a Ouija board,” Dinah replies, giving the woman her back as she moves around her desk and takes her seat. “Frank Castle is dead, Ms. Page. Don’t you read _The Bulletin_?”

Karen smiles a little at that one and leans over the desk, the hesitant mirth of before replaced with a sharp look. “I’ve been doing some digging and I’ve been told there’s a high likelihood that that isn’t true.”

“Frank Castle was killed in a shootout. Whoever is giving you information needs to get their facts straight.”

She watches Dinah closely, but Dinah’s used to being watched. She simply stares back until Karen bites her bottom lip and looks away. “What if I said someone was trying to kill me?”

“I would say contact your local police department or the FBI.”

Dinah watches her recoil at the second option and she feels herself sit up straighter. Something’s going on here. Something bigger than local vigilantes. Something that might be interesting enough to get the attention of her superiors and get herself out of the doghouse. “Do you know something I don’t?”

Karen’s eyes grow wide as they flit away from hers and Dinah frowns. She’s being led. Rather skillfully, she hates to admit, but led nonetheless. She’s suddenly sure of it. Karen’s soft voice as she asks, “What do you mean?” only confirms her thought.

This is how she does it, Dinah thinks. How she breaks the front page stories. How she makes dangerous people want to protect her. Not a flirtation per se, but a _sweet goodness_ . An innate warmth. An inner _resolve_ that makes others feel the need to help her see it through. For the first time, Dinah thinks there may actually be something to the saying, _you catch more flies with honey_.

Dinah leans close with a narrowed gaze. She still prefers vinegar.

“Cut the ‘little girl lost’ routine. You’ve attached yourself to one too many bad men to pull it off.” The retort held more heat than she feels, but since her hand is fully tipped, she doesn’t bother holding back. “Daredevil, Frank, Fisk… You know you have your own file?”

Karen takes a deep breath and sits back in her seat. “Okay. Someone’s trying to kill me,” she admits plainly.

“What do you have to offer us?”

  
“Excuse me?”

“Information, Ms. Page.” Dinah says candidly. “Who is this person? What made them come after you? Where do you think they could be now? Why are they on your trail? Why did you drop off the radar three months ago? What do you know that we may want to know?”

At the woman’s silence, Dinah turns her computer on. “Do you have any idea how many people come in here everyday complaining that their mailman is a Russian double agent? That their wife is definitely a terrorist and we need to put them into witness protection immediately? Death threats aren’t in Homeland’s wheelhouse. I can’t allocate resources to you if you keep refusing to help me understand why you need them from us.”

Karen shifts on the other side of her desk nervously before shaking her head. “It’s complicated. I can’t explain everything right now—”

“Well, then we can’t help you. I suggest you speak to your local police department.” Dinah puts in her password and leans over to her file cabinet. She shuffles a few papers, looking for a specific hard copy document, before she glances up again, surprised Karen is still sitting across from her. “Better luck at your next stop.”

 

\---

 

The rest of the day follows the usual script, but Karen stays on her mind the entire subway ride home. Whatever’s happening has the stench of Wilson Fisk to it. Her recoil at the mention of the FBI, and what personal history Dinah has picked up on between the the criminal and the reporter, attests to it. But if Karen won’t talk, she won’t talk.

While Dinah stands in line for takeout, her parents call and invite her over to the apartment for dinner before their flight the next morning. She begs off. _A little get together with a few colleagues and some food_ , she’d said. She laughs over the lie as she walks inside of her apartment and takes a bite of fish taco. She splashes some bourbon into a squat glass and goes to the cabinet to grab the sleeping pills Sam’s death hadn’t driven her to taking, but Billy’s lies had. She opens it one-handed, pops one and quickly downs the burning liquid.

She eats standing up at the counter, then takes a quick shower with her head against the tiled wall. Her mind and body are already pleasantly cottony and loose from the drink and the pill. She steps out carefully after she finishes and tugs her chemise over her head as she stumbles to bed. Her eyes close and she falls in, warm and already mostly asleep when she remembers the dirty glass still on the counter in the kitchen. She groans and rolls onto her stomach, smashing her face into her pillow. She’s almost made up her mind to leave it there when her mother’s gently admonishing voice pops into her head.

Dinah gets to her feet, swaying, and throws on a robe as she wanders into the kitchen. The glass is right where she left it, and when she turns to put it away, movement catches her eye. She doesn’t see anything at first. The outline of her couch, her TV stand, a bookcase. Then, _there_ , something just beside the wall _._

Daredevil is standing in the shadows of her living room.

She _just barely_ holds back a scream, but it’s still there crowding her throat, heavy and present. It comes out in a harsh breath as she curses and eyes him warily. The suit—with its little horns and bulging eyes—is comical in grainy Youtube videos and CCTV. Here, alone with him in the near dark, she can admit that it’s intimidating. He hangs back, doesn’t move an inch, but she feels the leashed threat of it anyway.

“Agent Madani.”

“Why would a fugitive break into a DHS agent’s house?” She’s shaking, but she makes a show of righting her glass, grabbing the bottle of bourbon and pouring herself a drink. She swallows it with a frown before holding it out to him in offering. He declines with a small shake of his head and she shrugs. His loss.

“I’m looking for a mutual friend." 

Dinah gives him her back and places the glass in the sink. “Who might that be?”

“Karen Page.”

He doesn’t mince words or try to be vague. Dinah most likely doesn’t know the half of it, but the woman obviously has some real trouble brewing around her. With no badge and no real access, Dinah can’t be of any more help to Karen than the vigilante standing in the middle of her apartment can. It would be the easy thing, the right thing even, to tell him what he wants to know and wash her hands of it all.

She leans against the counter to face the living area and her uninvited guest. Dinah doesn’t like the way he still looms just out of clear sight. She doesn’t like that Karen has obviously avoided seeking out his help. She doesn’t like that he came here to work her for information.

Dinah will not be worked.

“I haven’t seen her.”

Where he’d been practically vibrating with energy before, he has suddenly gone deadly still. He says nothing for a long stretch. Then, “You don’t know where she is?”

Even if the pill wasn’t beginning to kick in, the shots are, and Dinah wants this man gone. “I interviewed her once months ago. It was our first and last meeting.”

He sighs dramatically then, and something about it tries to bring her sluggish mind to attention. This whole thing feels wrong. He takes a step forward. “Well, can you do one thing for me?” 

“You need to leave now.”

He smiled a little. “Take a deep breath.”

When he finally moves, it’s faster than Dinah can react to. Only part of that is because of her dulled responses. He’s just fast. Incredibly so. _He’s been trained,_ she thinks, her cop mind slowly coming online. _Ex-military. Probably a special branch._ She tucks those thoughts in the back of her mind, just in case she makes it out of this alive.

There is no hesitation in his movement, no trip-ups. He is across the room in seconds, his forearm across her throat. She tries to bring her arms up to break his hold, but the suit… Every hit she lands seems to hurt her more than it does him. She keeps struggling anyway and she realizes that he’s letting her. He could have knocked her out by now. Even finished her off. Instead, he looks down at her. Those unblinking bulbous eyes are focused on her face.

He leans more of his weight onto her ribcage, keeping her pinned, before he lets his forearm fall away.

“I thought you were one of the good guys,” she goads angrily. He hums at that and then there’s a burst of pain in her shoulder. So much pain she can’t even scream. Dinah turns her face away from him to see a familiar handle protruding from her body. The fucker used one of her own knives on her. He shoves it in further and she gasps. Her whole chest feels like it’s on fire.

“I told you to take a breath,” he says lightly.

With that he reaches down and pulls her sash, causing the robe she’s wearing to fall open slightly. Then he yanks back the edges, tearing the section caught on the blade and exposing her silk chemise.

“Fuck you! Get your hands off of me!” she screams, suddenly wild with fury. She tries to bring her forearm up between them to push him back, but he’s too close. Too heavy. Her head is still fuzzy from her pain meds and the liquor and there is already so much blood. She can feel it hot and sticky, running down her stomach. _It hurts_. Just like before. More than before, because those few moments she'd lain dying in Frank's arms were a black spot in her memory. There is no darkness this time, just technicolor clarity. Just pain building on fear building on rage.

 _Please,_ she thinks. _Please. No more._

He laughs lightly, obviously enjoying her struggle. Obviously having a grand ol’ time.

“Relax,” he finally says. Seemingly bored and ready to move on. “I’m not here for that.”

Later on she’ll realize he’d never raised his voice during their confrontation, never once lost focus, and in the dark of her bedroom she will shiver.

Dinah grits her teeth and nearly growls her response. “I guess you’re waiting for a thank you?” At his blank look she steels herself. “Just get on with it already.”

He tilts his head at her like a confused dog, that slight smile still lifting the corners of his mouth. He'd been enjoying playing with her earlier. He'd anticipated the look of shock on her face when he came to the real purpose of his visit. He hadn’t opened her robe to ogle her body; his gaze had gone directly to the wound. To the blood. This time, his grin seems more personal. More curious about _her_ than anything, and that scares her about a thousand times more than the knife in her shoulder does.

“All in due time,” he says almost sweetly, before reaching up and pinching her cheek, leaving a smudge of her own blood behind.

She bats his hand away and he tuts. The sound is strangely indulgent.

“You really need to breathe for me, Ms. Madani. It’ll only be worse if you keep holding your breath.” He re-positions his hand and turns it to get a better grip on the hilt. Then pulls the blade downward, ripping her open further. This time, she screams. She screams until the edges of her vision go first blurry, then completely dark.

 

\---

 

When Dinah comes to, the light is almost blinding even though she has a heavy set of blackout curtains she never opens. She groans and reaches for the remote to close them, only to touch air.

Her eyes open slowly. They feel dry, like they’ve been pasted together and she almost has to pull them apart to see. A coil of panic grips her when she realizes this isn’t her bedroom. The dark hues she chose one Saturday with her mother are, here, replaced with bright whites and a putrid shade of green. She looks down and notices she’s wearing a cheap, paper gown. That her arm is in a sling and her shoulder is bandaged, a bit of red seeping through at its center.

 _Daredevil_.

She’s suddenly on high alert, and her breathing goes shaky as memories of the prior night slam to the forefront of her brain. _Daredevil did this._

Dinah starts trying to stand up. She’s out in the open, she’s alone. She has to get somewhere she can defend herself if he decides to come back again. Her head pulses. Her vision feels like it’s shrunk down to a pinprick.

“Agent Madani?”

She jerks at the sound of another voice in the room, and turns to see Karen Page standing at the window watching her warily. Her hands are up like she expects Dinah to attack at any moment. It’s not a completely unfounded worry.

She closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing. Tries to slow down her rapid heartbeat. A nurse looks in on them, but Dinah waves her off. The last thing she needs right now is a tranquilizer or more bodies in the room. When she finally feels able to speak, she glances at Karen.

“Someone definitely wants to kill you.”

“I’m sorry,” Karen says quickly. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Agent Madani—”

“Please—”

“This wasn’t Daredevil,” Karen says lowly. “I know why you think it was, but it wasn’t.”

Dinah keeps her gaze level. “How do you know that?”

Karen shakes her head as she takes a breath, wraps her arms around her middle and looks away.

“ _Right_.”

“You have to trust me. He must’ve known I came to the office and thought you would try and help me. He wasn’t after you.”

“I'm never the one they're after,” Dinah says offhandedly as she stares blankly at the empty wall facing her. “But I always end up bleeding.”

Karen wipes her nose with the back of her hand. She seems upset, like she wants to say something but can’t find the right words. “I’m sorry,” she finally settles on.

“I bet you’re always sorry.”

She feels something like triumph when Karen’s face crumbles at her harsh words. Dinah can leave it at that. She should leave it at that.

“Frank’s alive,” she says instead, and Karen falls back into the seat at Dinah’s bedside. “He saved my life and I got him out of New York City.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. That was part of the deal, no contact.”

Karen sits up and Dinah can see the wheels in her mind beginning to turn. “Could you ask around? Do you know anyone who would—”

“My partner in Kandahar was tortured and murdered after I promised to protect him. My partner here was killed on a botched mission I was running. The person I was fucking ended up being involved in those and a lot of other deaths of Homeland agents and civilians. He also shot me in the head.” Karen is very quiet as she speaks. It doesn’t even seem like she’s breathing. “No one in that office will do anything for me.”

“I— Agent Madani—”

“My parents keep a spare key above the door.” Dinah tells her the address. “Go there. I’ll catch up later.”

Karen looks as though she wants to argue, before she nods and ducks out of the room. She must have realized they’ve run out of better options. Dinah presses the call button and argues until she’s allowed to check herself out. The gown they brought her in wearing is evidence, but the nurses find her something to wear home. The top of a Pepto-pink pair of scrubs and some dark wash jeans that are a size too big. They’ve probably been in lost and found for years, but she’s grateful to have them.

Dinah’s wondering what she’ll do for shoes when there’s a knock at the door and a man sticks his head inside. “Agent Madani?”

She pegs him for police immediately and starts gathering her things together. “Detective?”

“Special Agent, actually,” he corrects without venom and steps into the room. “Should you be up?”

“I’m checking myself out. Don’t think of trying to stop me.”

He throws his hands up. “I wouldn’t want to stay here either. They just sent me over to check on you.”

“Well now you have.” He’s still standing in the way when she walks up. “Move aside.”

He puts his back against the door smoothly and lets her go with a diffident manner and a grin that’s anything but. She’s halfway down the hall before he calls out. “You might want these.” She turns to see a white bag on his arm and a pair of cheap flip-flops with the Duane Reed sticker still on them.

She stomps back and snatches them from his hand.

“You’re welcome,” he says without a hint of annoyance. “I’ll even drive you home.”

She almost says no, but the thought of the subway or catching a cab makes her nauseous. He waves his arm and walks until she’s forced to follow if she doesn’t want to lose him. He seems like he would be the sort to ramble and she’s prepared to shut him down, but the ride is quiet. Pleasant, even. It’s soothing, watching the city roll by through the passenger-side window. She feels her eyes slipping closed, when he pulls up to the curb and clears his throat.

“They knew you’d want to come home, so they put a rush on the scene.”

She spares half a thought for the bottle of bourbon on her counter, the half-empty bottle of sleeping pills in her cabinet and the unregistered gun in her drawer, before brushing it aside. There’s nothing to be done for it now. Dinah blinks away her exhaustion and moves to open the door, but her hand will barely make a fist. She stares down at it and tries again, her fingers curling weakly into her palm.

The doctor told her she would need PT if she were to regain any strength in her grip, so this isn't unexpected. She grunts and bangs her useless arm against the door anyway.

“Hey,” he calls out, sounding affronted. She swings her angry gaze to him, but he doesn't back down, simply motions to the door and leans forward slowly. “I'll get it?” When there are no objections, he leans over her lap and the feel of him that close triggers something in her. Anxiety. A memory cloaked in darkness. She stiffens and looks at the side of his face as the door opens and he moves back into the driver's seat.

“Do I know you?”

He shrugs. “I wouldn't be surprised if you did.”

She wouldn't either. It’s perfectly within the realm of possibility that they've crossed paths at a scene or on a case. But there was something else, too _._ Something that caught her up short. 

Dinah steps from the car and walks away before turning back and leaning down to speak through the open window.

“Thanks for the ride…”

“Dex,” he says; she nods, then walks away. As the doorman ushers her in, she glances back to find he’s still sitting at the curb. Where most people would smile or wave as acknowledgment of her look, he simply stares. Eerily still. _Leashed_ , she thinks suddenly.

Everything in Dinah wants to walk back to the car and confront whatever feeling he’s dredging up in her; she’s even moving to do just that, when she thinks again of Karen’s reaction to the FBI. Someone has already come after her. She needs to be careful. She needs to lay low.

Dinah hurries inside and up to her apartment, then locks the door and throws the deadbolt. Even though it was useless against Daredevil that night, it still makes her feel better. She changes her clothes and packs a few things. She checks to find the pills and the bourbon exactly where she left them, but the gun is gone. She slams the drawer closed and paces the floor until late that night.

When she glances down at the street, Special Agent _Dex_ is still there. Or his car is, anyway. She doesn’t know if he’s security or a tail; either way, she leaves through the back door of her building and catches an Uber the next street over.

She doesn’t live far from her parents’ apartment, and expects it to be dark when she opens the door, but Karen isn’t sleeping. Wrapped up in a throw on the couch, her eyes look heavy, but they’re open, staring at the TV screen.

Dinah rests her bags against the kitchen counter. “Take the guest room, third door on the left.” She points to a hall branching off of the living room. “If you’re hungry, feel free to grab whatever.”

With that, she starts toward her room before Karen stops her.

“Thanks. For all this.”

Dinah waves her off and goes to change and clean up as well as she can with her shoulder in a sling. She puts on a fleece button-up and climbs into bed a little after midnight. There she lies for the next hour, drowsy but not sleeping. She wants her mother. She wants her bottle of bourbon and her pills and her gun, but none of those options are available to her. She makes an annoyed sound and stands, making her way back into the living room to find Karen still sitting on the couch.

Karen glances back, looking half-dead with exhaustion. “I can’t sleep either. Now that’s it’s time to finally wind down, my body doesn’t know what to do,” she says, tapping her foot against the hardwood floor.

Dinah makes a sound of agreement and sits on the other side of the couch, eyeing the other woman speculatively, a bad idea forming in her mind. “We should have sex.”

Karen blinks, looking suddenly sharp and wide awake. “Huh?”

“I haven’t slept through the night in weeks. I don’t trust anyone. I don’t trust you, but you’re here so…” Dinah shrugs, stands and walks back toward her bedroom. “We don’t have to, of course. We’re stuck together either way. Just thought I’d throw it out there.” With that, she disappears inside, leaving the door open a crack behind her.

She unbuttons her shirt and carefully removes her arm from the sleeve with the first smile she’s worn in weeks. The look on Karen’s face… Dinah can’t say something like this is unusual for her, but Karen isn’t even her type. The doe eyes, nearly always red-rimmed with tears. The tendency to bring trouble wherever she goes while miraculously dodging the fallout. The air of fragility that surrounds her. Dinah listens for any movement in the hallway as she slips her hand between her thighs. 

She’s already slick and, even using her left hand, she finds her rhythm quickly. Whether she likes the woman or not, whether she trusts her, or whether Karen even comes to join in—it doesn’t matter. This is happening either way.

Dinah’s always been a sucker for a pretty face.

She laughs at her own private joke and feels sick, pushes her hips up against her fingers, breathes out harshly, her eyes drifting closed. It feels good. Perfect. She doesn’t usually get there this fast but no one’s touched her—she hasn’t even touched herself—since that afternoon in the shower. it’s been years since she’s gone this long without. She uses a bit more pressure and curls her toes into the blanket. She’s almost forgotten she’s invited a guest until she feels a weight on the bed beside her.

Her legs slam shut and her eyes pop open, but it’s just Karen. She smiles down at Dinah cautiously.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted—” Instead of finishing her sentence, she rests her palm against the inside of Dinah’s knee, but Dinah’s slow to shift gears. When she doesn’t respond, Karen starts to slip away. “Or I could keep watching you. Or leave if you changed your mind.”

“I didn’t change my mind.” Dinah lets her thighs shift back open, forcing herself to breathe. 

Karen nods, but she isn’t looking at Dinah’s face anymore. She’s watching her own hand inching up the inside of Dinah’s thigh. “I don’t really do this anymore. Not—” Karen starts, then stops with a nervous laugh, “women specifically, but all of this in general. ”

“That’s okay,” Dinah assures her. “I do.”

“Okay,” Karen says, sounding a little breathless, a pretty blush rising from the neckline of her shirt. Her eyes keep flitting away from, then back to, the hand between Dinah’s thighs. Something about that charms Dinah against her better judgment. Karen swings her legs up onto the bed and leans in as Dinah’s heartbeat ratchets up, expecting a touch that suddenly doesn’t seem so forthcoming. Karen keeps her hand on Dinah’s thigh and kisses her gently instead. Respectfully even. Like she’s a soft and precious thing.

Dinah doesn’t normally hold with any sort of deference in the bedroom, but Karen will not be moved. Not by the nip of teeth on her lower lip, not by Dinah sliding her hand up over Karen’s breasts or licking into her mouth. She does nothing to halt Dinah’s hand—leans into it and moans, even—but she keeps her own touch strictly within the green zones.

They kiss like that for a long time. Butting up against one another’s boundaries until everything in Dinah has shrunk down to how wet Karen’s mouth is against her own, the feel of Karen’s flesh beneath her palm, the way she hums when Dinah touches her just right. To only the gentle pressure of Karen’s thumb moving back and forth on Dinah’s thigh. She traps the appendage between her legs and rubs them together, trying to encourage Karen to go further.

Karen either finally believes Dinah wants this, or she’s grown tired of the game. When she moves her hand up and touches Dinah, it’s like a pulse of electricity, highly anticipated yet still shocking. She grabs Karen’s shirt in a fist and gasps. She’s wet, damn near dripping from how easy the glide of Karen’s fingers feels. The smile Karen gives at that is anything but sweet, and Dinah knows then that not a single moment of this has been about timidness. It’s been a calculated assault.

Dinah pushes further into her with a grin, bites her lip harder and stops being so gentle. Karen may have orchestrated Dinah’s slow unraveling, but she hasn’t been left completely unaffected by it. Slippery and hot, Karen rolls her hips forward at Dinah’s rougher touch and pulls back from the kiss to lay her head against Dinah’s shoulder. She breaths wetly against the side of Dinah’s neck and her touch loses some of its finesse when Dinah slips two fingers inside of her.

Her touch is different than what Dinah is used to. More steady pressure than anything else. She barely moves, letting Dinah choose the motion and speed she likes best. Dinah herself prefers to use her whole hand on Karen. No direct stimulus; she cups her and rubs in tight circles, letting her skin slip against itself until she’s panting with it.

The most surprising thing about it is, when it happens, she doesn’t see it coming. There’s no gentle ascent once they really get going, just radiant heat and then a firecracker burst of pleasure. A persistent ache of want. She slumps into Karen’s arms and jackknifes her hips against her hand. She kisses above her left breast, the side of her neck, the corner of her mouth. _Desperate_. She’s desperate for something--for more--and is ashamed of it in a way she’d never been before Billy came and destroyed everything.

Dinah collapses into Karen’s arms and doesn’t move. She stays there for longer than she intends, because when she comes back to herself, Karen is petting the side of her hair with one hand and hugging her close with the other. She hasn’t come. Dinah can feel the tension still drawing her tight. She lowers her hand and tries to touch Karen again, but she shakes her head.

“It’s okay. We can stop.”

Like hell they can.

Dinah uses her good shoulder and shoves her onto her back. “You were doing so well earlier, don’t pull the martyr card now.” Karen goes still at that and Dinah worries she’s said the wrong thing. Panic begins welling inside of her. She felt good tonight. Better than she has in a long time, and she’s not ready for it to end. She leans down and slips her hand back between Karen’s thighs. She groans and looks at Dinah, obviously torn on how to react.

“ _Dinah_ —”

She ignores her and starts working Karen’s shorts and underwear down her legs one-handed. Her right shoulder is killing her—has been for awhile now—she ignores that too and slides down. She pulls Karen’s leg over her shoulder and runs her nose against the thin skin of her inner thigh. She nips, then sucks, leaving a red shadow behind. Karen gasps at that and Dinah looks up at her from beneath her lashes.

"Should I keep going?"

There’s a click in the back of her throat as she swallows, then nods her agreement.

Triumphant, Dinah kisses further up her leg and Karen must be already more than halfway there, the moment she puts her mouth to her, Karen groans and rocks back. Dinah settles onto her stomach and relaxes into it, realizes this is almost better than her own orgasm. Between Karen’s thighs, there is no thought, no second-guessing, no worry. Dinah follows where her body leads, sucks harder, licks slower and lets herself sink deep. She almost doesn’t notice Karen’s coming until she pushes Dinah away with heavy breaths. She tugs Dinah up before she’s ready to go and kisses her like she did at the beginning. Soft and sweet.

  


\---

  


Something wakes Dinah up a few hours later. She rolls onto her back and looks to the empty side of her bed with unexpected annoyance. She hadn’t wanted to wake up spooning, but Karen didn’t have to sneak out in the middle of night like a thief, either. Dinah groans and sits up. It’s probably better this way, she tells herself. A good night’s sleep and no morning-after awkwardness. She’ll have to track her down at some point to figure all of this out, but she’ll be fine on her own for now.

She stands and pulls on her night clothes with a frown and walks out of her room to the sound of voices. She doesn’t pay much attention at first, assuming it’s from the television, but when she turns the corner into the living room, Karen is standing there and Dinah stops short, both unexpectedly elated and suspicious at the sight of her.

“You’re still here.”

Karen turns to her with a piqued look, then glances back to a corner of the room just out of Dinah’s sight. She steps forward and spots a man in all black with a mask wrapped haphazardly across his eyes.

“It’s okay, he’s a friend of mine,” Karen says quickly, and Dinah realizes then that she’s grabbed a small statue off the TV stand beside her. Taking into account her useless arm—and who she thinks the person standing across from her is—what exactly she planned to do with it is uncertain. She keeps it close anyway.

“I’m not the one who hurt you,” he says lowly and Dinah feels herself leaning forward to hear better. “Wilson Fisk runs the FBI now. He got a replica of my suit made and got one of his agents to wear it.”

Dinah feels like the wind just got knocked out of her. “Fisk has the entire FBI under his thumb? What proof do you have of this?”

“The guy pretending to be me is in the wind. Special Agent Poindexter. Find him, get him to talk and there’s your proof.”

Even Karen looks shocked by what he’s saying. Dinah breathes harshly through her nose and takes a step closer to him. “You can’t just drop in here, say this and expect me to just believe you!”

“You don’t have to go on my word. Find Poindexter.”

“I don’t even know who you are,” Dinah mutters, even though she’s already made up her mind to follow up his claims with or without the help of the DHS. “Did you let him in?” At Karen’s blank look, Dinah gains even more steam. “How long have you been in my house?”

Karen opens her mouth, then closes it and turns to their guest, seemingly wondering the same thing herself. He clears his throat and finally settles on his answer.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Karen goes scarlet at the implication of his words. If it were just from embarrassment, Dinah could have laughed it off, but there’s a current of something beneath it that keeps her quiet. An obvious connection between them. Something fraught and heavy with history. Dinah’s eyes begin roaming the room as a way to try and give them some privacy. She counts all the books with a red binding on her shelf, she makes a mental note to buy some new curtains, and when her eyes fall back on him, she realizes—either due to more light coming in from the rising sun or just a fresh gaze—he doesn’t have eye holes cut out of the sash tied around his head, even though the fabric looks rather heavy and opaque. She stores that information where she puts every other tidbit she notices that may become useful later on.

“I wanted you both to know that Fisk won’t be a problem for us anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Karen asks gently.

“I took care of it.”

“You didn’t—” She glances at Dinah as though she’s just remembered there’s a cop in the room and they may have to watch what they say.

“No, but I set it in motion and didn’t do anything to stop it.”

It’s strange, she thinks, the way he emotes without changing his expression or giving them any sort of cue with his body. He’s torn up about whatever hand he’s played in this, and Dinah has to look away. His pain is strangely intimate; she doesn’t want any part of it. Not when she’s got her own to deal with.

He and Karen are still speaking when her eyes land on the TV and she sees a photo of Wilson Fisk flash across the screen. Dinah reaches for the remote and turns it up.

  


_The body of underworld criminal Wilson Fisk washed up onto the shores of the Hudson River sometime late last night. Though he was in FBI custody at the time of his death, the bureau has yet to make an official statement. Reliable sources claim a press conference will be called later today, which will give more information on Fisk’s death and, possibly, an indictment for the murder of Special Agent Nadeem. They will also ask the public to keep an eye out for this man, Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter, who went missing within the last 48 hours._

 

_In other news, the search for missing woman, Julie Barnes, has come to a tragic conclusion..._

  


Poindexter-- _Dex._ “He _—_ ” She can't finish the sentence. Dinah turns to see that Karen staring is slack-jawed at the screen as well and their guest is gone, curtains flapping in the breeze behind him. Dinah pulls herself together quickly. “We have to go to the precinct. Do you still have any live connections down there?”

She turns and goes down the hall to start getting dressed and only realizes Karen isn’t behind her when there’s no response. She grabs her clothes and tugs them on as she walks back into the living room.

“Are you coming?”

Karen looks surprised by the question, then nods. “Uh, yeah. Let me get dressed.”

Dinah’s already pulling her heels on before she can finish. There’s work to be done.

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to _outruntheavalanche_ and a person who would prefer to remain nameless. I wouldn't have gotten through this without you two!


End file.
